


We're Written in Scripture

by sapphic_writer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Alternate History, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Denial of Feelings, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphic_writer/pseuds/sapphic_writer
Summary: Crowley has made some changes to scripture over the years. It's a good chance to tempt humans into evil on mass by giving them justification for evil acts, and besides, the angel loves the written word. Throughout the centuries they continue to run into each other and Aziraphale begins to notice the inconsistencies.





	We're Written in Scripture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LostSoftSpaceDyke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostSoftSpaceDyke/gifts).

> Yes this fic will have some biblical references and blasphemy so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, honestly I don't know why you're in the good omens fandom, but this one might not be for you. I'm going to try to do two updates a week because this will be a fairly short 4 chapter fic :) Shout out to LostSoftSpaceDyke for being part of the conversation that gave me the idea, check her out! Thanks also to Rocknrolldamnation73 for helping me edit!!

Crowley didn't remember much of the week after the crucifiction. Despite being a demon, the things humans are capable of regularly turns his stomach and makes him want to give the whole thing up. One of these days he was going to snap and tell Hell the truth: "They don't need me, they damn themselves. I showed them the difference between good and evil and they still destroy each other. Give up! We're not needed." 

For the last 60 years he's mostly been haunting the port taverns in Gaza, causing fights between sailors and fishing ships to lose their daily yield, but his heart wasn't really in it. He was casually plugged into a few criminal rings, moving around illegal products and running a few of the brothels, but nothing close to his usual activities.

At the moment, Crowley found himself occupied in a discreet opium den under a cheap inn where single sailors would often stay to enjoy each other's company. He usually kept more savory (and powerful) company, but the cloud in his mind and the warm bodies pressed against him made a convincing case to stay.  
He heard the warm rumbling of a ship captain in his ears. Through the haze he could tell he was draped over the man’s lap, but all he could focus on was the little patch of graying hair just above his sideburns. “Heard they were writin' 'bout him up in Jerusalem.” 

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat and tugged absently at his braid.  
“Seems like that Jesus fellow is big news, thought he’d be back by now, guess they’re going to record some stuff in case it’ll be a while.” 

“Ngk,” he didn’t want to pull himself out of his stupor but he’d been slacking for too long for Hell to continue overlooking it. He took a deep breath and exhaled entirely too much smoke than could have possibly been in his lungs. It formed into a loose serpent and circled their heads before dissipating. The nice thing about drug dens was that he could perform minor demonic miracles without being questioned by people too high to know what’s real.

With a clear head, he could see the man that he was curled on top of wasn’t as attractive as he had seemed moments ago. Somehow in his fuzzy state he had found something enticing in the patches of white hair, clean shaven face, and the way the drugs had made the man’s eyes swirl in blue and green, but now he could see that he was rather plain. His hair was choppy and uneven, and his face was slightly ruddy with the skin sagging slightly under his sunken cheeks. 

“What are they writing?” Crowley presses his hands into the man’s chest to help convince him to keep talking. 

“Been a lot of stories goin’ round. Someone figured they should write ‘em down I guess. Dunno much about it, not sure I believe the hype.” 

This was exactly the kind of opportunity for temptation he always sprung for. Change a few things in a moral text and if it catches on then hundreds of people could use it to justify whatever they want. He stood up and miracled another pipe full of opium for the captain.

“Have another, it couldn’t hurt.”

The angel would probably be there. Crowley noticed his liking for the written word since its invention. If Crowley has ever wanted to find the angel, the first places he would look would be libraries and schools filled with scribes recording stories and moral lessons. Not that he would want to find the angel. No. Now how far was it to Jerusalem again?

**************************************************************************  
The journey was miserable. He had traveled with a caravan of traders (four of which were now enemies and two of which stole valuable cargo and left, all temptations Crowley performed out of pure boredom). 

At the moment, Crowley was eating dinner with the scribe who was at the moment writing what would come to be known as the gospel of Mark (his name was also Mark, though not the same one the scriptures would later be named after). They were both finishing off their first bottle of wine and waiting for the first course of the meal to be served when Mark gave an uneasy look out the window. 

"I invited someone else I wanted you to meet since you've been so helpful in clarifying some of the stories of what happened. Quite a holy man, very insightful in moral philosophy." 

Crowley raised his eyebrows in vague interest. Someone else to tempt perhaps? Hastur and Listur were always going on about corrupting the holy. They were far more into crafting a temptation perfectly than the widespread corruption of souls which Crowley partook in. So it might not be his usual style, but at least it might satisfy Hell until this whole Gospel plan played out. 

A young looking servant girl opened the door and a light skinned man with snow white hair and a clean intricately embroidered robe stepped into the room. Crowley started coughing as he had recently found reason to choke on his wine. It was the angel. Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me absurdly happy so let me know what you think!! I will respond to everyone!


End file.
